Release
by purple-goose
Summary: AU. Begins at the end of season 2. Sayid and Danielle set off to attempt to rescue Kate, Jack, and Sawyer.
1. Chapter 1

_**Title: Release  
Author:** purplegoose  
**Rating:** M (sexual situation, violence)  
**Featured Characters:** Sayid, Danielle Rousseau  
**Summary**: AU. Begins at the end of season 2. Sayid and Danielle set out to rescue Kate, Jack, and Sawyer  
**Author's Notes/Disclaimer:** I do not own the characters in this story, nor do I own any rights to the television show "Lost". They were created by JJ Abrams and Damon Lindelof and they belong to them, Touchstone, and ABC.  
_

"No, Sayid, I don't see it that way at all," stated Locke forcefully. The bald man squinted at the fire then looked back to him. "What we need to do – "

Sayid stopped listening after 'no', resisting the annoyed twist his lips wanted to take. They had been arguing for what had to have been hours and were nowhere near a consensus beyond the fact that the Others had the doctor, Kate, and Sawyer. He wondered if Locke would concede even that point if Hurley was not present. Sayid was tired of biting back words, battling his temper as Locke blocked his every suggestion. The older man seemed content to let the captives fend for themselves, advocating firmly that this camp would be left alone. Now that fealty had been paid for Walt's release, peace would reign.

Support was not to be found. Only Sun, then Claire weighed in that rescue was necessary. Both had long wandered off as Locke discounted their words politely but firmly. They wouldn't be going; their votes did not count. Sayid shared their frustration with the man, wishing he too could simply walk away.

No one else offered opinions. For too long, Sayid realized, the decision making process was Jack alone, no input accepted. Sayid acknowledged that the other survivors, him among their number, had been happy to let it be so. That no one thought now was a time to change from autocracy to democracy was not surprising. Letting Locke step in and decree life go on was fine to them. Which would be acceptable if he could overcome Locke's reluctance to act.

He needed Locke. He needed Desmond. He would take Charlie, Hurley. Eko's presence could be a deciding factor if his wounds from the hatch explosion weren't so severe. Steve. Ana Lucia. . He rolled his lips ruefully. Ana would have contributed greatly. As would Kate – if he wasn't trying to raise a force to free her. Jin. He did not want to include the man with the thought of a pregnant wife's safety distracting him

There was a need to have a defense here. He doubted an attack – surely that would tax their number too greatly - but he was done underestimating the enemy. The civilians required –

His musing stopped at the sound of his name.

"I hate to say it, Sayid," Locke was drawing to a close, his eyes glittering as he peered at the flames. "But your last plan didn't do so well. You didn't see hide nor hair of anyone once you got off that boat." The piercing gaze found his. "Not as bad as Custer, but –" He lifted his hands, palms up, and smiled without teeth.

Sayid did not take the time to understand the comparison but now was not the time to ponder then argue it. Now was time for retreat. It was not capitulation. He was not done with this. "We'll talk in the morning, John. It's late."

"Nothing more to say," argued Locke.

Sayid stood, stretching his back. "Then it will be a short conversation. Good night, John. Hurley."

There was satisfaction in striding away to his shelter. It was a small satisfaction, but he would accept it. There had been so little of it of late.

As he fumbled with the binding of the tarp walls, he wished that his persuasive skills were greater. Leaving Jack, Sawyer, and Kate at the hands of the Others was not acceptable. Why was this such a difficult concept for Locke? Could family mean so little –

He turned at the scrunching of sand behind him.

Hurley, head down, lumbered to the edge of the shack. He cocked his head, then raised his face. "Dude, I screwed up, didn't I?"

Sayid dropped his hands to his hips. He shook his head with a slight shrug. Did the young man mean his silence during the arguments? He did not think that Hurley's words would have carried much weight with Locke.

"I shouldn'ta told Locke what that guy said. About never goin' back there, where Jack and Kate are. And Sawyer. I meant Sawyer, too," he added quickly.

"Hurley, you did as instructed," said Sayid without hesitation. "What we do with the information is up to us. You could not know that Locke would react in this fashion. It would not matter if you had."

Hurley did not look convinced. He sighed and shifted his weight from side to side, as Sayid finished his preparations for the night.

"Hurley?" He was finished, the shelter sleep ready. He climbed onto the platform, pushing aside the tarp. "Is there anything else?" he asked over his shoulder.

"Dude, would you….were you ever…" Hurley's voice dropped to a mumble as his eyes studied his feet. He bit his lip and exhaled sharply. "Would you have ….stayed?" He lifted his eyes and fixed them on Sayid's. "They were tied up and gagged and Kate looked scared and I…..left. Would you a left?"

Sayid blinked in surprise. He considered the question carefully, noting the expressions of hope and trepidation cross Hurley's face, so plain even by moon's light. "I have not found myself in that position," he said slowly, raking his hair with his fingers. "But I do not believe that you had a choice. If you had attempted to stay, you could have wakened to find yourself alone and possibly bound. At best. Or perhaps you would have been killed."

Hurley's eyes grew large and he took a step back.

"You did the proper thing, Hurley."

Hurley nodded, his mouth pulled tight, and sighed loudly. "So you woulda done the same? You woulda left?"

Sayid tipped his chin. "What's the expression? Better to live to fight another day? Yes. I would have left."

Hurley bobbed his head, the curly hair moving as a unit. "Thanks, dude." Hurley turned and shuffled away.

Sayid watched the large form return to the fire circle. He slipped behind the tarp and sank onto his pallet. He untied his trackers slowly and pulled them off. He tugged his shirt over his head and lay down. His body was weary. Perhaps with sleep would come the means to bring Locke to reason. His eyes were heavy. His last thought slid into random dreams of chasing and being chased.


	2. Chapter 2

_I failed to thank my betas: whoKnowsWhy and MrBeta. They keep me in line. How I failed to mention IslandPalm who kept the faith is unforgivable._

Chapter 2

His heart was pounding. His eyes were open, moving, seeking. His hand was reaching for the rifle, the stock cool and hard to his fingers as they curled around it.

This was not a dream. He was awake.

Someone was in the shelter.

He began to slowly pull the weapon closer and gasped in pain as a pointy knee was suddenly jammed on to his elbow, his fingers flying open. A hand, the skin dry and cool, covered his mouth. Hair whispered across his cheek.

"Sayid!"

The voice, low pitched, was a hiss in his ear.

With his free hand, he pushed away the one covering his mouth, "Danielle?"

She dropped onto her heels, freeing his arm. "Where is the dark haired girl?"

"Who?" He sat up slowly. Pushing the blanket aside, he reached for a shirt. It was not the clean one. It would do. He stood, her dark form rising with him.

"The girl I sent for you when I found him. I looked for her. I couldn't find her. I had to wait until dark. Where is she?"

He pulled the shirt over his head. It was damp from the day, not fresh. Very little was fresh anymore. "She's dead,' he stated flatly. He considered his trainers, and left them where they sat. If he needed shoes, he would return for them. "Let's talk outside." He stepped around the woman and onto the beach.

The sand was chilly to his toes as he held the canvas for Danielle. "Why are you here?" he asked as dropped the door.

"I followed them. Why didn't you come? I waited." She stepped close to him, her large eyes luminous and searching, the omnipresent rifle pointed at the sand. Her face appeared bereft and betrayed, evoking the sense that she was fragile, birdlike, belying his knowledge that she was neither. "You didn't come."

Sayid felt his brow wrinkle. "Where, Danielle?"

"They sent the heavy boy back. So I waited for you to come. I expected you to bring weapons." Danielle frowned deeply and sighed, her expression making him feel the dull student.

Heavy boy. Hurley. "You followed –"

"Them. Yes," her tone held impatience. "They put the father on a boat with his son. They sent back the one. They took the three with them."

He waited. She would tell him in her own fashion. He had learned this much with the few contacts that he had with the odd woman.

"You know this?" Danielle demanded. "He told you – the one who came back?"

He nodded, "Where did they take them?"

"I'll show you. Come." She turned.

He caught her arm before the second step. He noted the firm muscle, reminding him that she was a woman of the island, had survived alone against the odds, and could play the part of a major asset in finding the captured trio. "Wait." First was Locke who did not want to budge, and now Rousseau who burned with immediacy. Was there no middle ground on this island? "Morning would be bet-"

"Now. They move often and could be gone before dawn." Her chin set stubbornly. "I know where they are. Come now and so will you."

"If you did not need me, you would not have come here," he replied levelly. "Haste has not served me well. We will need –"

"We need to go!" she said adamantly, stepping closer. "It's possible they've moved again." She looked away, peering into the night as if she could see the movement from here. "I waited and then followed. They have your friends."

"And they will continue to have them until morning." He kept his voice even, firm. Once again, he found himself modulating its tone. Was he always this easily irritated? "We need –"

"I'm going," she announced, pulling away from his hand. "You may come or not. I thought you would want to help your friends."

Sayid watched her long legged stride take her into the darkness, his mind racing. Was she trustworthy? He did not believe that she would work with the Others, not after what they had cost her – her husband, her child. But, his brain tossed in quickly, most had believed the same with Michael. Could Rousseau have made a deal for her child?

He shook his head minutely as he discounted the possibility as quickly as it formed. Rousseau had not provided a list of people to accompany them. If the Others had wanted him, they could have taken him at the abandoned village. It pained him to acknowledge that were his capture desired, since they were able to foresee the actions to thwart Michael, it would have happened. He did not enjoy facing his ineptitude.

He lifted his eyes and scanned the tree line. She would leave a trail. Could it be followed? He quickly cast through the people available who could track. It started and stopped with Locke, who would not start. He sighed. He missed Kate's skills and willingness to jump to a task. He lacked the skill and was not foolish enough to believe that it could be learned while practicing for the first time.

What would be accomplished if he left with Danielle at this moment? If the Others had not moved on since she left them, he would know their position. With just the two of them, this information could mean nothing. He would face the same dilemma that she had earlier: not enough numbers for strength, for a strike. He could send her back to camp – if it was possible to convince the woman to do anything outside her own interests – to escort a rescue team. Surely, Locke would yield to the logic of action then, and could read the trail left behind if the Others were as nomadic as Rousseau maintained.

The holes in this plan glared at Sayid. He could end up alone, trailing the Others from camp to camp, waiting for assistance that was not coming. It was possible that he and Rousseau would not be able to find the latest base if they had decamped since the woman had left. They could be captured. They could be killed.

He scrubbed his eyes with the heel of his palms and looked to where Rousseau had disappeared. Even with someone accompanying them, success hinged on Locke seeing the need. Could he count on Rousseau to do as he bid? Should he include another person – who? – to send back? Would it matter who was the messenger with Locke? Who would come at this very moment whose presence to which Rousseau would not object?

Sayid pulled his hair back from his neck, beginning to turn when a woman's form solidified from the woods. He dropped his hands to his hips and watched as Rousseau cross to him.

"You have changed your mind," she stated with a hint of smugness. "I knew when you did not return to your tent."

"I am beginning to believe that my decisions are set in sand," Sayid replied with disgust. "Let me get my shoes."

"Bring the rifle. We will both be armed." She walked at his shoulder, halting at the edge of the platform. "That will change the balance with them."

"Danielle," Sayid paused mid step. "We are not an army. To consider us scouts is …to flatter ourselves." The concept of scouting almost choked him after his foray to the fake village. He hoped that this trip would produce results that were more positive. "And should I …ask you to return –"

"It will be for reinforcements," Her hair whipped across her face as the wind suddenly picked up. "Sayid, I am not a foolish woman. I want my child. You want to free your friends. We will work together." She pulled the strands away, determination etched in the lines about her eyes and mouth. "I am not deceiving you. That lesson pains me even now."

He studied her once more, and nodded shortly. He stepped inside and reached for his trackers. He sank onto his pallet to pull on socks. He eyed his surroundings, deciding what to stuff into his pack.

It was undoubtedly another in a series of foolish moves since crashing onto the island, but he was going with Rousseau to find the captives.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Following Rousseau was difficult as his eyes adjusted to the deeper dark of the jungle. Listening meant not moving as her stealth was a part of her, and his steps were heavy and crashing in contrast. Not moving meant falling behind, and once again he experienced the sensation of a floundering novice.

This feeling lead to more thoughts of inadequacy: he was relying on a woman who had tortured him on their first meeting; remained invisible to all but Hurley the next; warned of an eminent attack that did not take place the third; kidnapped Claire's baby the fourth; presented him with the netted Other the fifth. He hoped that his instincts regarding her now were to be trusted; as they proved trustworthy with the dog of an Other that she had delivered.

Picking his way behind her, he wondered as to her character before this island. Would he recognize the woman who loved Robert and the music box gifts that he presented? Was there a seismic cleft that permitted Rousseau the ability to kill every member in her party since crashing here? Was her survival an indication of a strong personality or did the killings point to a weak one? Some of the musings were not new. As he made his way back to the camp after his first encounter, her sanity was examined and found wanting until he heard the whisperings. Then he questioned his own, and tasted guilt at the relief that she did not return with him to reveal his new fears.

Once he had reached camp and until Hurley's excursion for batteries, Sayid had pushed the thoughts away, keeping busy so that Rousseau ruminations evaporated completely. He had to fend off Jack once and then the crazy French chick, in Hurley's vernacular, no longer existed.

The Battery Expedition, as Sayid had filed the trip in his memory, had cast a different light on the woman. As he and Jack had stood amid the ruins of her camp, mined for his return, intruders but not Others, he was certain that she was mad. It was Hurley's possession of a battery for the raft radio and the young man's tossed 'she says hi' that cast doubt on the categorization as too simple. The scales tipped again when Rousseau stole Aaron from Claire. The woman's tears as she placed the child in Sayid's arms tightened his throat and her honesty moved him to classify her as a very troubled victim, worthy of sympathy.

Then he and Shannon heard the whisperings, seeing what should not be seen. For some long days, he had wondered if Rousseau, at that first meeting, had taken his offer to join the camp if Shannon would still be alive. If Rousseau's belief in the existence of the voices would have made running in the rain unnecessary, avoiding the frightened Ana Lucia and her gun..

The voices plus the delivery of the accurately identified 'other' propelled him now, fast at her heels. He knew her as cunning, strong, blunt, and lonely. More than he knew of many of the survivors that he lived with daily. Perhaps, he mused, his trust of her was a reflection of her steady trust in him.

His attention was jerked to his surroundings as a branch pulled jaggedly across his arm. Sayid realized that Rousseau was a solid form in front of him; she lacked color and definition but dawn was creeping towards them. He studied the area as they made their way past a grouping of rocks. He looked for other recognizable landmarks, not expecting to find any. They were long past the hatch and cave locales, and he had taken few trips beyond. Given a visible end point – like heavy, black smoke - he could make his way through the jungle, but to wander for familiarity was not a pastime in which he indulged. At least not since his mapping attempt, he mulled, acknowledging the irony of following into the rain forest she who introduced to him its added dangers.

His foot brushed an exposed root. He grunted as he stumbled onto one knee, the crack of underbrush sharp after the quiet rhythm of their progress.

Rousseau whirled, rifle sliding from her shoulder to the ready in one smooth motion, twisting at the waist as she checked the area. Sayid ducked, dropping the other knee to the ground. His right shoulder dipped to permit him to pull his rifle to his chest and he made himself as small a target as possible. Wildly he wondered if his body would ever be found and given proper burial.

"Are you tired?" she demanded, lowering the rifle when no imminent danger presented itself.

His face burned as he climbed to his feet. "No."

She tilted her head, studying him. He met her gaze steadily, slipping the weapon back over his shoulder.

"I don't believe you," she said finally. "I rested while I waited. You did not sleep. I woke you."

"I am not tired," he repeated firmly.

"What happened to her, the dark haired girl?" Rousseau nudged the safety on the gun and slung it over her shoulder.

"She was shot."

"Who shot her?"

He paused. Did Rousseau know Michael? What would it mean to her to know the twisted path taken by the father to rejoin his son? But she had seen Michael depart in a boat. He shook his head. He was tired of trying to decide who needed to know what. He opened his mouth to speak.

"Did she have the sickness?" Rousseau stepped closer, her eyes narrowed as she studied his face.

"No," he replied firmly. "I am not familiar with the circumstances of her death," he said slowly. "One of the men that you followed - the father, you called him - shot them." Tension crept across his shoulders as he was suddenly aware of being weary.

"Them?"

His mouth felt tight as if his tongue were unwilling to utter the words as he choked out the little that he knew of Libby's demiseHurley had been sparse with details, his anger evident as he spat Michael's name. Questioning the bereaved man would have been fruitless. The young man, his voice tight with emotion, stated that he knew nothing more than Libby's death had not been planned but Michael insisted that his actions were warranted "for the boy".

That rationale shot ice through Sayid's spine. Then he was surprised that this was so when he knew all that he had seen and done to and by fathers through sons, and how parents could be used as implements of destruction.

But, Sayid argued with himself, his reluctance to push for details from Hurley had little to do with the realization that he and Hurley shared the same providence since the crash; that the similarities of Shannon and Libby's deaths did not wake a grief that had been calming; that watching Hurley dig Libby's grave did not renew the ache in his muscles or blisters on his hands; that the anger in Hurley's voice did not stir a rage that threatened to overwhelm. His unwillingness to don the role of interrogator was not based on identification with the young man but from recognizing the stubborn set of Hurley's mouth as the end of a topic and the knowledge that details would not change the crime. Or the result.

The slow creep of dread climbed Sayid's throat. His hands were not without blood in this tragedy. Once the prisoner was unmasked, he left the liar to the devices of Jack and Locke. All in the hatch knew that the man in the armory was treacherous yet Sayid did not discuss with the battling titans what to do with the prisoner. He left the hatch not to return, following what was now his new pattern of behavior: immersing himself in tasks, this time physically demanding enough to stop thought and permit sleep. The captive's presence permitted Michael's crime to go undetected until he delivered his payment for his son.

It had taken Danielle's inquiries of Ana Lucia to bring to his attention his emotional distance from the well being of the camp, the part that he played in creating this situation. That the woman who had shot Shannon was dead by a bullet had been no more than a fact acknowledged as he helped dig another grave. He did not consider if it was destiny, justice, or simply an impersonal accident of circumstances; there were dead people to bury. At no point was he truly concerned with much beyond movement, keeping up barriers.

Perhaps he had known this subconsciously. Perhaps it was why he was here now with Rousseau on this ill-defined mission. Atonement. Once more. Still.

He blinked, feeling Rousseau's eyes on him. "We should move on," he said.

Her dark eyes shifted away as she gestured to the left, "There is water that way." She turned and headed in the pointed direction.

"I have water," offered Sayid. "We should keep moving." Now that his consciousness was raised, he wanted to start on the proper path. He hoped that finding the Others would point to a means to free Michael's search party.

She disregarded his offer, continuing towards a banyan grove.

Sayid sighed. He was not leading this expedition. Given his track record, that could contribute greatly to its success.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

"They were taken here," Rousseau announced as they came to grassy area. She stopped to face him. "The shaggy one fell," she jabbed with her finger to her right. "There. The doctor and the girl ran," she pointed behind him. "That way. Then they fell – her, then him. The boy did not run, neither did the father." She dropped her hands. "The Others came. They covered their heads with sacks and carried them," she turned, gestured with her chin. "That way. The boy – they covered him, too - and the father, they walked with them."

Sayid nodded, looking where she pointed, trying to picture the events as she spoke. He spotted a mound – sudden and out of place - and walked to it. Close by, a large white plastic pipe emerged from the ground, hooking in a 'j'. The source of the pile?

His muscles protested as he sank into a squat. Some of the objects – cylinders – glinted in the late afternoon sun. He took one in hand. It was made of clear hard plastic, serving as a container. He studied it for a moment and easily determined its opening mechanism. His brow creased. The case held a theme book – its cover the now familiar Dharma symbol.

Rousseau crossed and leaned over his shoulder. Her hair brushing his shoulder was soft.

He pulled the pad from its shell and skimmed the pages. "Timed entries." He glanced at his companion, holding the pages so she could read.

"Kate," the name sounded rusty, as if the woman was unsure of her right to use it. "Did the same." She straightened, scanned the ground, walked, stooped, and returned with a twin of his journal. She opened it, leafed a page or two. "Observations?" She cocked her head. He watched her eyes sweep the entries. "What are they monitoring?"

"Who is being monitored by whom from where and why?" He stood and pushed on the tube, trying to rock it back and forth. It appeared solid and deeply buried. From where did it originate? Why?

He dropped to his knees, and rummaged through the mountain of plastic, pulling from the bottom. He removed the composition book from each shell, glanced at a few pages, and handed it to Rousseau without lifting his head. The pages that he skimmed were essentially the same – times and activities. Nothing indicated input. No conclusions appeared drawn. No hypothesis, indication of objective. No mention of controls. Front to back filled with surveillance – time and actions. Prisoners? Captives such as Jack, Kate, and Sawyer? He reached from a different area. The entries looked no different from the first.

"Can you-" he started to ask, looking up. Rousseau had wandered off and was sitting several feet away, her face creased with concentration as she stared at the notebook on her lap.

He climbed stiffly to his feet "Do you have any idea the purpose of these?" he called as he paced the parameter of the pile, stopping to pick a random case. He split it, and thumbed the pages. He tossed it to the side and stepped again to pluck another.

She shook her head slowly, "No." She frowned deeply and seemed to concentrate on the ground. "We need to go."

Sayid nodded, selecting another canister and dropping into his rucksack. He watched as Rousseau rose gracefully, sliding the rifle strap over her shoulder. She paused, took a few hesitant steps away from him, and knelt. Movement in the trees snagged his attention as she dropped from his line of sight. She straightened, studying the paper in her hand.

"This is different," she said, looking up to his face. "What do you think this is?"

"Let's see that," he said in his normal voice, then added quietly, stepping next to the woman so his shoulder touched hers. "There is someone in the trees," He turned, using his peripheral vision to determine if he could make out more. Not a bear - his mind easily produced the charging polar bear. He cupped the hand holding the sheet, making a show of examining it.

Rousseau's eyes widened. He felt the tension tighten her hand, watched the paper slightly crinkle.

"Please don't look," he said, lifting his eyes to hers. "I did not notice before this. I don't know the number, if we have been trailed for some time, or they are sentries here." He smiled tightly. She was right. He had been tired. It had cost him his normal watchfulness in the enemy territory.

She dipped her head so her lips brushed his beard. Her breath was warm where the skin was bare. "We are in the open. Like your friends." Her voice was clipped, fear seemingly robbing it of its richness.

Sayid fought for a full memory of the area, his fingers unconsciously brushing the top of Rousseau's hand, reaching for the other to forestall a provoking move with her rifle. A move that was as natural to her as the snipers had been in his unit.

Thoughts spun. What action to take? Was it possible to simply to walk from the area without incident? Their number? Was it a solitary watch? "They ran? And fell?" He knew the answers. He needed her not to react. Yet.

Rousseau nodded twice. "After they fell, the Others revealed themselves."

Michael had stated that the Others' number was small. Sawyer had tales of an army surrounding them when he, Jack and Locke first tried to follow Michael. Perhaps the truth was somewhere in the center. If they believed that their warning passed by Hurley would be heeded, would many be posted to monitor a site far from the beach?

He hoped that it was not hubris when he doubted that a large number would be in their wake without notice, despite his weariness. The woman with him had avoided direct confrontation with the island inhabitants for years in such a fashion that he believed that she would have detected covert action of any number.

"Danielle." He hoped that his luck had turned, that his reasoning was sounder than it had been since the plane crash. He doubted that this was the case but escape must be attempted. He tried to meet her gaze – it was important that she take in every word - but her large eyes were darting side to side, inspecting the area behind him.

"Danielle," he repeated, squeezing her hands, oddly noting the fragile, bird like bones, the dry, calloused skin.

"Could Alex be with them?" she whispered, her grip growing tighter.

Her pain spilled over him. He blinked, focusing how her long fingers were wrapped about his wrists; on the contrast in their skin tone, her ragged nails pressing marks into his skin. "Was she with them when my friends were taken?"

Rousseau closed her eyes. She shook her head mournfully.

"Look at me," he said with quiet force.

She lifted her face, her brown orbs drilling into his. He pretended not to notice their dampness. Now was not the time to offer solace. One of them must elude capture.

"I want you to walk away from me. Behave as though you have spotted something on the ground in the distance. Try – behave as though you are not aware of their presence. Go as far as you can, then run." He was drowning in her eyes, her pain, her fear.

He broke free, looking again to their entwined hands. She had broken his skin on his left wrist. Blood oozed slowly from the cut. He felt a cool detachment spread through him.

"What are you going to do, Danielle?" He met her eyes once more.

Her fingers tightened as she took a deep breath. She released it slowly, nodding as she did so. "I will walk that way." The smallest of head tilts indicated the directions, the force of her clasp easing.

He dropped his chin, giving her a slight nod of encouragement.

"I will escape." The words were firm, her eyes narrowing. She released her hold, but did not step away.

His hands felt oddly empty. They dropped to his side.

"And you?" she asked directly. "When I run, will you act as the target?"

His eyes dipped over her shoulder, once more avoiding her gaze. "I will run as well. I have no intention of being made captive." As he uttered the words, the realization that he could be taken to become the prisoner of Henry Gale coiled down his spine. It would not be the first time that he faced under less than equal footing someone whom he interrogated.

Now was not the time to consider that either.

"Go," he said lowly. "We're giving them time to formulate a plan."

She raised her hand to his cheek, her eyes burning. She turned, moving slowly away, her head lowered.

He watched her for a moment, sighed, and strolled stiffly to the pile of notebooks. He knelt, the strap of the rifle sliding down his arm, and picked up a tube. He freed the pad and pretended to read it, wishing for eyes in the back of his head. How far had Rousseau gone?

Time was stretching, as it did before a battle, when seconds felt as hours. Once engaged, time would speed up and slow down in a dizzying dance that defied memories, allowing only bold images, odd details to be retained.

Sayid dropped the notebook, and slipped his hand to the rifle action. He stood slowly, the rifle barrel pointing down, the band brushing his knee. He rounded the pile, pausing at the point farthest from the trees, and marched away from the tree line.

Something flew past his ear, a slight whiz of sound with it. He whirled to face the trees, the gun raised. He stayed his finger on the trigger - he had no clear target. Could Alex be with them? Was it a wise to start a gun battle where he had no cover?

He spun and ran. It was difficult in the high grass over uneven terrain, and frustration swelled as his calves and feet pulled through the growth, feeling a snail's pace.

He was not surprised to feel a sharp piercing in his thigh. He brushed at the dart, snagging it on his palm. It seemed seconds later that his muscles became sluggish, non responsive despite exertion. Another jab struck his arm. He was not aware that he was falling until his shoulder struck the ground.

His last thought was of Rousseau's long legs running through the jungle.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

His mouth was dry. His tongue was made of sand adhering to the roof of his mouth. His head was stuffed with cotton wool, twisting slowly behind his eyes. His wrists ached from the bindings keeping his arms behind him. The lumpy contents of his rucksack pressed against his shoulder blades, his spine. The surface under his cheek was firm, cool, gritty.

He was prone on his stomach in the dark. His eyes were open and he could see nothing. He closed them – it was disconcerting that it seemed lighter with them closed – and listened. He did not expect to hear anything and was surprised by slight rustling.

He remained still, waiting.

It was not repeated.

Sayid lifted with his upper body, and rolled to his side, pushing to a seated position with his right elbow. He paused, listening once more.

"Sayid?" Rousseau's voice was subdued. "Are you awake?"

"Danielle?" The disappointment stung. They were both captured.

"You were taking a long time to wake."

He concentrated on her voice. It bounced lightly. Cool air, dark, smooth, grit. Another hatch?

"I took two darts," he said, leaning forward to his knees, then climbing to his feet She sounded close - to his left. The change in position did not afford any more light. He tried to look about. "Are you hurt?"

"Are you bound?" she asked. "My hands have been tied."

"Mine as well." He slid his foot around him. Encountering no obstacles, he stepped gingerly in the direction – he hoped – of Rousseau.

"I shot them."

He stopped mid-step. This statement was unexpected. He withdrew the thought immediately. It didn't surprise him at all, he realized, the memory behind his eyes of her rifle pointed at him.

"I saw you fall," she continued. "They came from the other side to you. I waited. They were arguing. I could hear them shouting at one another. I moved closer for a clear shot as they began to drag you."

He felt his eyelids blinking. Emotions – confusion, black tinted satisfaction, anger – cascaded through him. He reached for confusion, it could have positive results: if Rousseau had shot the Others, who had immured them here?

"One fell by my bullet," continued Rousseau. "The other dropped to the ground on his own accord. I shot him as well."

He did not attempt to stop the swirl of gratification the words wrought. He would examine his soul later. At this moment the taste of revenge was sweet on his tongue. Retribution did not require his administration to be so. He savored it for moments, then returned to confusion. "Then who –"

She sighed heavily. "There was a third. She stayed back. She used a dart. I saw her run as I fell."

Sayid nodded, mentally echoing her sigh. Of course there would be a third. Henry Gale would escape with Michael. The village would be a stage. The boat would be taken. There would be a third person.

"She was not Alex," she concluded softly.

He remained still, unclear if words were necessary. If so, which ones should he use?

"I believe that this…. this place is like the one where Claire was taken." Rousseau's voice cracked then gained volume.

"Claire?" The topic change confused him.

"I did not find Alex there either." The words were low, clipped, as if she tried to suppress them.

He waited. There was no further explanation, no more details. He took another step, then another.

"When I woke," Her voice was controlled. "I could see faint light around the door. It did not last."

His mind knit her thoughts and his experience of the swan hatch together. "You can find the door." The idea of escape leaped to blue flame.

"The light will return in the morning. Finding the door will not be difficult then."

"The morning could be too late." The words were spoken before he could remove their heat. He wanted out – of the situation, of the hatch, away from a confrontation with Gale.

"Moving in complete darkness without hands to break a fall is foolish." Her voice was admonishing.

His foot pressed against something solid, but yielding. He knelt slowly. "But if your hands were free?" He leaned forward slightly, and felt hair brush his cheek. He increased the angle. Her chin slid against his.

"Then I would open the door," she said simply. He pulled away as she twisted to present her back.

It was frustratingly slow task. The chord was thick, rough, the knots lumpy and tight. Their hands were numb and slow to respond. Trying to visualize what the fingers were touching was difficult. The movement returned blood flow and with it came a low level of pain.

Rousseau groaned as the segment of rope dropped from her wrists to the ground. He felt her breath on his neck and the fumblings at his wrists grew stronger and more certain.

"These are not good knots," she reported with derision. "Stop pulling. I will – there!"

Rubbing his wrists gingerly, Sayid climbed to his feet. He extended his hand and after a moment found hers. "The door?"

"Yes, Sayid," a smile was in her voice as she rose. "This way." She wrapped her fingers about his and gently tugged in an indeterminate direction. After colliding twice with her heels, he dropped his other hand to the small of her back.

They hugged the wall for a short – and endless – distance. Rousseau released his hand suddenly and he could hear her fingers tapping a metallic object. "In the other place, Kate found –"she grunted, followed by a slight snick, then the beam of a flashlight exploded onto the floor. "Torches." Satisfaction filled the woman's voice. The light swept and beamed to reveal a door similar to that of the ground entrance at Locke's hatch.

Sayid hurried to it. Grasping the release, he attempted to rotate the ring. It moved then froze. "It's been jammed on the other side," he said over his shoulder. He made a number of attempts but even with Rousseau's assistance, the door remained sealed.

"They must intend to return – otherwise why bind us when the door cannot be opened?" demanded Rousseau angrily.

He stared into the darkness, frustration balling in his stomach. He rubbed the back of his neck, knowing that alternatives would be found with a calmer mind. In the corner of his eye, he could see the flashlight beam swinging wildly about.

"It would stop an attack, being restrained," he answered absently, his mind churning. Locke's hatch had two entrances: vertical and horizontal. Perhaps the construction of this edifice would be consistent –

He looked up in surprise as light flooding the room stung his eyes. Blinking, he sought Rousseau.

She stood next to an electrical box, her smile containing a bitter, triumphant edge. A large purpling bruise covered a cheek. "I recall Kate returned the power as well."

His spirits lifted. Consistency. There was a chance. Electric torches. Electricity. Two points of entry. "Did Kate – or you - find a second entryway?"

Rousseau shook her head. "We weren't looking for one."

He nodded towards the short hall, and crossed to the unknown. "Let's hope that you overlooked it then."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

He knew that the gash in his leg was more severe, but the strain his shoulders and arms had endured claimed his attention. He considered the pain a small price for stopping his plunge down the vertical hatch, and he included the agony of the climb down in that cost, but the burning with each move defied his equation. He wanted only to sink to the floor to shout with frustration – with the pain and the clumsiness of his actions. Instead he concentrated on not leaning too heavily on Rousseau, using the idea of her witnessing such a scene to smother the childish urge.

He gestured to one of the two oddly squarish chairs balanced on a post in the dimly lit room and sank heavily onto its seat. Rousseau ducked from under his arm, and stared at his blood staining his pants leg.

"You frightened me," she stated, lifting her eyes to his, her lips a tight line.

"My foot slipped." The fear that had gripped his heart when his tracker had left the rung as he had pushed against the door closed his throat even now. The seconds that he had fallen would repeat in nightmares. The abrupt jolt as he grasped a rung as he had clawed desperately for purchase slammed him against the wall, driving a sharp corner of metal deeply into his shin: a twisted miracle. He had cried out at that moment, whether in pain or relief he did not know and would not examine.

"So I noticed," Rousseau said dryly, kneeling. She folded the pants leg gently and studied the wound directly. "We need to stop the bleeding." She straightened and scanned the area. She moved to a set of shelves partially covered with one door, the second leaning drunkenly on its side and began pawing at its contents.

Sayid eased against the chair back awkwardly. He was now all too aware of every centimeter of discomfort. Instead of cataloguing them, he sat stiffly and glanced about the area.

They had hurried through it on their quest for an exit, not taking the time to wonder at the bizarre arrangement of wall of television monitors, chairs with attached trays and bizarre metal arms. The light from the wall fixtures was concentrated over counters, giving the rest of the room a dim, secretive air.

His hand brushed a protuberance on the chair arm - a knob. It turned as his fingers brushed it and illumination flooded the room from the ceiling and strangely grated locations on the floor. He twisted it the full revolution, watching the bright light uncover the stained concrete walls, the dirt covering surfaces in irregular clumps.

"What did you do?" demanded Rousseau, pausing in her search.

He gestured to the switch, and shrugged. She regarded him steadily for a moment, and stepped to the next door.

He watched her methodically push now familiar looking theme books to the side, then turned his attention to the rest of the room. The wall of monitors - nine in total – had panels to the right sides with knobs matching that on the chair. His grandmother's television had such technology. For a moment, his fingers itched to dissemble one again. He mentally smiled as he recalled her reaction to finding her appliance in pieces across her floor.

The image faded as his eyes landed on a personal computer – a twin of the one in Locke's hatch. His stomach tightened as he sought the count down clock.

"La salle de bain!" Rousseau's exclamation was muffled.

Sayid twisted. One of the doors along the circular wall was ajar. "Danielle?"

As he pushed himself from the chair, the woman reappeared in the main room. "Sayid, it's a lavatory!" Her eyes were dancing with excitement, a smile creasing her face. She dashed from sight once more.

He returned his attention to the computer on the counter as she called "There's water! Running water!" Indoor plumbing did not interest him as this look-alike machine. He looked about. There was no timer near the machine or on any wall. What was the purpose of the processor here?

He stepped slowly, his attention drawn to the bloody leg. He did not have long legs yet it seemed that when he was injured, they – in particular his left leg – bore the damage.

The red of his blood was starkly brilliant on the filthy concrete floor. He reached gingerly for the hem of his singlet and eased it over his head, his shoulders protesting. He took a breath and kneeled, tiny points of whatever grit covered the floor pressed against his right knee. He tugged at the cut pant leg and pressed the shirt against wound, wincing as he applied pressure.

"What are you doing?" demanded Rousseau, her arms folded to hold against her chest something silver, water running down her right hand as it held a wet white rag while her left clutched a glass.

Sayid unclenched his teeth, "Pressure." He loosened his hold. Had he stopped the bleeding yet?

She narrowed her eyes and crossed to tower over him. "I found a proper first aid kit. In it are proper first aid materials." She extended the glass to him, trading it for the wad he had made of the top. "In this…" she curled her lip, holding the fabric at arms length. "_Shirt_ is certain infection."

The fall and the cut had distracted him but as his fingers touched the damp tumbler, the aching thirst with which he had awoken reclaimed his attention. He drank, struggling not to gulp. The water was redolent of sulfur but yet tasted of the finest nectars. He quickly emptied the cup and wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

The woman turned to toss the offending garment onto a chair and suggested that she bring him a refill. He declined with a shake of his head, putting the glass to the side. She gestured with the sodden cloth to the leg and handed it to him after he settled gingerly on the floor with his legs extended. The sluice dripped down his arm as he lowered the rag to the cut.

He hissed at the burn from the water on the raw flesh and was surprised to feel Rousseau's cool hand slide over his. His eyes met hers as she gently pushed his hand aside. She turned her gaze to the wound as she lightly dabbed away his blood.

He set his jaw, leaned back onto his elbows, and focused on being still.

"This is the same leg," she observed, glancing up at him.

He dipped his chin at the glaring similarities of his first captivity on the island and this. His resolve hardened. "If we cannot get out," he said as the idea formed. "They do not get in."

She absently brushed an errant hair from her face, then reached for the first aid box. She opened the lid and examined the contents, then produced a small bottle with the ubiquitous Dharma label. "This will sting; peroxide."

He could not prevent the flinch as the fluid bubbled. Rousseau looked up to smile weakly at him. "Sorry."

"They've jammed the door from the outside," he continued. "So we jam it from the inside."

She considered his words; her head tilted slightly, her eyes lowered, their movement from side to side indicating thought.

The former solider watched her face closely. It was expressive, angled as expected with a woman her age and weight. Her lips, pulled as she pondered, were full. She was an attractive woman, he realized distractedly, wondering the origins of etched lines – time or the stress of her solitude?

"We'll create our own prison?" she said at last, raising her gaze to his.

"Fortress, Danielle," he said softly. "Just one to ensure us time; that we are not surprised by the Others. Again."

She said nothing, picking gauze from the kit and with a gentleness that belied her stretched lips she patted the gash.

The silence stretched.

"How did you bruise your cheek?" he asked.

"I fell. Over your legs." She did not raise her head. "I thought that I would find the torches. It was foolish."

He watched as she neatly applied a plaster. "Trying is never foolish," he said levelly, sitting up. "Does it hurt?"

He watched her blink as if in surprise, then stiffly shake her head. Her blue eyes met his. "How do we build this fortress?"


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Sayid watched Rousseau agilely descend the rungs. She dropped from the last, and stumbled. He caught her shoulder, steadying her. She glanced at his hand, then up the murky light to her handiwork.

He followed her gaze, "Your creativity in these matters is impressive." A metal brace from one of the chairs was suspended between topmost rung and the wheel that opened the door, its magnifying panel turned to serve as a platform. On it, two glass tumblers filled with the screws and bolts of the other brace sat precariously. Any attempt to open the door would send them crashing to the concrete. Not a lock but an alarm.

She smiled tightly, looking at him. "I would prefer my gun."

He dropped his hand. "You are dangerous even without it." Unconsciously his fingers brushed the fresh scar on his thigh.

They turned and walked shoulder to shoulder through the small corridor.

"Not soon enough," she murmured as they entered the main room.

The fruits of their search, piled loosely between the chairs, added clutter to the small room. Sayid had been surprised to discover such diverse items in the closets. The bare tool kit made sense – equipment failure had to be addressed as it happened. The candles – a few with blackened wicks and melted wax – and boxes of matches spoke of electrical disruption, and again, seemed practical. The camp stove with a propane cylinder attached was more difficult to explain, as were the tattered sleeping bag, bent tent pole, and obviously worn lab coats with either stains or torn sleeves or pockets.

The dried packets of Dharma stamped food were welcome as were the peculiar assortment of chipped and dented dishes and flatware. They agreed, despite rumbling stomachs, to fortify their shelter before eating, ignoring as well the videocassette tape in the videocassette recorder with cleanish buttons, showing some recent use. The hotplate and electric kettle were found in the lavatory amid thin grayed towels and a brittle plastic bottle containing a pink, thick soap.

They had cannibalized the broom, using the stick and the broken cabinet door to prop against the horizontal hatch entrance – using the remains of his shirt to bind the pieces of wood together for greater strength. The two 'posts' were pushed under two spokes of the door wheel so that turning it with great effort was not possible.

The notebooks, pens, and canisters were left undisturbed. The computer and printer were also untouched –their uselessness obvious in securing the accesses. Sayid had made the mental note to investigate the blinking machine later – a decision made easier than releasing the box of food envelopes.

He stepped to the cache, and quickly extracted the kettle. Rousseau moved to the bathroom with mugs and returned with the water. They worked together at clearing a spot on the counter top near the computer after determining the outlet was the most accessible. Sayid removed the plug of the printer, replacing it with that of the kettle while Rousseau carefully poured the liquid into the pot. They stood watching the appliance until the steam rose.

He filled the mugs with what he judged to be the proper amount of fluid and handled one to Rousseau. He stirred his briefly and then again as the powder seemed to resist combining with the water. He couldn't distinguish the savory aroma with its touch of sulfur but that did not deter his mouth from watering.

He carefully took some of product into his mouth. It was salty, very salty. He paused, and reached for the empty envelope. He inspected the thick paper, seeking verification that he had read it correctly. When he considered chicken soup, it did not resemble this concoction in any way, yet, the black lettering stated boldly that it was soup, and it included dried chicken parts.

Rousseau lowered the blue mug slowly, keeping both hands circling the ceramic. She studied the contents, her face carefully composed in neutrality.

"Chicken soup," he announced, his brow creased. He returned his attention to the yellow contents. "It says that this is chicken soup."

"Did you follow the recipe?" she asked evenly, her eyes downcast.

Sayid poked at the congealing mass with his spoon. "It seemed rather self explanatory. Dried soup. Water." He frowned and sniffed at the spoonful of short noodles. "It is food?" he sipped at the spoon tip. More flavors were apparent. His tongue now confirmed what his eyes had read. Sayid suspected the power of suggestion was great to his growling stomach. He took the spoon into his mouth, chewing gingerly.

Rousseau's eyes regarded him steadily.

The absurdity of the situation crept to his consciousness. The steaming water, mugs and kettle brought to mind the setting of an unhinged tea party, his disappointment and dismay in the packets' bounty marking him as host. "If this taste is true, I have burned the water," he announced, almost lightheaded with the ludicrousness of the image. Were there drugs mixed with the powder, he wondered idly.

She blinked and frowned. "Better that then this be what food has come to after all this time." She shook the mug and returned her gaze to him. A smile started slowly across her mouth. "I was a good cook."

"It is a skill that I lack all interest outside the finished product." Sayid handed her a spoon from the counter. He gestured to the chairs and followed her across the floor.

"My maternal grandfather was a chef. He had no sons so he taught his daughter," Danielle sank gracefully onto the seat.

"And she taught her daughter." Sayid relaxed against the chair back. His face relaxed into a slight smile as he lifted the spoon to his lips. Dharma had improved their food line in the time from this production, he decided, thinking of the food in the beach pantry. He decided it didn't matter the tastes, it was warm and stopped the growling of his stomach.

"As I would have taught mine," she said softly, eyes once more downcast, the smile faded.

Sayid directed his attention to the floor.

"Robert and I had such plans for our child," Rousseau stared into her mug. She lifted her head and smiled at the memory. "She would be versed in the maths and sciences. She would know the best music, read the finest books." Her gaze turned inward. "He sang to her. In my womb. He would kneel, and hold my hand and touch," she placed her right hand against her flat stomach. "Here, and sing. He had a beautiful voice."

His eyes were drawn to her face. The angles were sharp as she lifted her chin, seeming to hear the song, but her lips were soft in a smile and her eyes lost their haunted set. Years fell from her.

Sixteen, he told himself bitterly, angered by the waste, the loss. Who were the Others that they stole lives and children?

"I gave birth alone," the voice was stronger, emotion fell away. She blinked and returned to the present. "It had been just the two of us by then. Robert disappeared. I woke and he was gone. It was two days before Alex was born. He knew that we needed him but he allowed himself to be taken."

"The Others do not ask for volunteers." He felt a need to defend the departed man, believing death to be the only means of separating a husband from his pregnant wife. "They take by force."

Force. She had used deadly force on Robert, he recalled. Had the man escaped the Others only to be slain by his wife? Sayid's eyes swept the room as if seeking answer in the walls, the monitors, then back to the woman.

She was staring at him, her lips a straight line, her fingers tight about the mug, her knuckles white. He realized that this was the first time that she was telling the full story – not just the outcome – of her daughter's birth; that he was the first person with whom she shared insight to her most painful – and joyful – experience. His feelings did not matter here. His beliefs did not belong.

Nadia jumped before his eyes: the frantic desperate feeling of getting her to safety swamping him, the crack of his pistol ringing in his ears, the cold fear squeezing his heart that his family would pay for his sins. No one knew the facts of that time. No one but Nadia. He met Rousseau's eyes. And this woman.

He leaned forward and put his hand on her forearm. The muscles were an iron chord.

She did not move. She did not look at him.

"That you survived this….tragedy astonishes me," he said hoarsely. "I don't know another woman who could endure what you have all this time and continue."

Her eyes swam. She turned her head, once more staring, her lips trembling.

He quickly stood, containing the flinch from the pull of the cut. He disposed of his dish on the chair seat, and knelt before her. He eased the mug from her clenched fingers, placing it on the floor, and slipped his hands around hers. His eyes locked with hers. "I remember you said that you had a week with her."

Rousseau nodded, biting her lips. She pulled a hand free and wiped her eyes, then slid it back under his. "She was a perfect enfant. Her fingers were pink china, her mouth a perfect bow. She was beautiful and determined. When she wanted to eat, she demanded to eat at that moment. She slept - we slept. It was a sweet sleep."

"Then you saw the smoke?"

She shook her head. "No. Three days after Alexandra was born, Robert returned. He said that he escaped."

He could not stop the widening of his eyes.

She shook her head, a sad smile lifting the corners of her mouth. "It was a trick, Sayid. He came back for Alex."

His forehead creased as he narrowed his eyes, shaking his head.

She gripped his hands. "He said that he escaped. He said that he was back for good, that they would not find us again. He tried to be Robert. I pretended for the day. I wanted to believe him. But I saw the sickness, so I took precautions."

"The firing pin," said Sayid softly.

Rousseau nodded. "The next morning, he made me breakfast. It made me sleepy so he helped me to the bed. I could hear Alex crying. I tried to wake but I couldn't. When I was able to move, he was gone. He packed all of the things that I brought for her. He took his rifle. He took Alex."

She collapsed into the chair, tugging her hands free. "I was able to follow. With my rifle. I caught them – it is difficult to move quickly with a child." She stopped, making certain that he was listening still, her fingers twisting and pulling at one another. "He tried to run. I fired my gun in the air." She paused, staring over Sayid's head. "He dropped Alex and turned with his rifle. He tried to shoot. Then he ran towards me, brandishing the stock. I shot him."

He stayed at her knee, hoping that listening was comfort. If anything could be.

"I picked up my baby, the bag, and fled. We hid for three days in different banyan groves. I didn't sleep." She looked exhausted with the memory. "I needed supplies, so I went back to the shelter. I didn't intend to stay." Her chin lifted as she looked up. "I saw the smoke. I didn't know what it meant. I should have stayed away. I should have known it wasn't….. I went to the shelter. I gathered her things. Alex fell asleep. I sat down, just for moment. Only a moment." Her eyes dropped to her hands. "I fell asleep."

Tears streaked her cheeks. "When I woke, Alex was gone."

His chest tightened at the pain on the woman's face. Without thought, he rose. He was reliving the need to be touched as he buried Shannon, as he spoke at her grave, as he stumbled away, words choking him, wishing for someone – anyone – to place their hand on his shoulder and share his burden. Once more the raw ache of loss swept through him, the burn not to be trapped inside himself raging through him. He clasped Rousseau's wrists, recalling the pity in Sun's eyes as the shovel bit into the sand and the suppressed hope that she would offer comfort with contact instead of widened eyes averted, and brought the French woman to her feet.

She did not resist as he enveloped her with his arms, bringing her close. She stood stiffly, then leaned into him, her arms slowly moving up his arms to circle his neck as she pressed her face into the base of his neck, the quiet tears replaced with soundless sobs that shook them both. His hands gently rubbed her back and hair, seemingly of their own volition as soft crooning thrummed from his throat.

He had no idea how long they stood, for the force of her grief to crest and quiet. Her breath, now even and steady, was warm on his damp throat. Rousseau lifted her head, her palms sliding slowly down his arms to take his hands, her eyes locked with his. Her fingers caressed his palms until she dropped her hold, and stepped back.

Her tears had been hot as they hit his skin but now cooled as he stood alone. He made no move to wipe them away, studying the woman before him. Their situations were nothing alike. Yet she served as a mirror to him. They were both searching for someone with such focus that they were missing the life surrounding them. Hers was more dire given her circumstances, but too easily he could see his days blurring into the tenor of hers: alone, desperately scrabbling towards the only one believed could end that isolation. It had frightened him more than the waves of electricity she had shot through him, this recognition and vision of his future if he continued on this path.

He was not taken aback when Rousseau declined his invitation to return with him to the beach camp at their first meeting. Despite the great pity he felt for this lonely woman, he had hurried back to the knot of survivors, telling himself that it was to warn them that they were not alone, still very cognizant that his new openness was a direct result of his interaction with the French scientist.

With Shannon, Sayid had believed himself 'cured' of Rousseau's future. His lover's death had sent him reeling in a direction that was so very different from his search for Nadia, but had produced the same effect. He was alone. It was cleverly concealed to him and the people around him as he worked to benefit the community, but he was emotionally shut down.

He saw that now, as Rousseau's tears dried. He hadn't physical contact of any kind with anyone since he had buried Shannon. He flushed as he recalled his fists against Gale's face. He did not regret his actions – his judgment had been upheld there – but that he eschewed connections unless enraged did not point to a well adjusted mentality.

The silence stretched.

He wanted to tell her this: that she had touched his him, his life. He sought the words. More proof of his isolation – this inability to say what he felt confronting him.

"I am tired of being alone," she said hoarsely.

"As am I." The words surprised him. For the second time when standing in front of this woman, he saw another path – the better path open before him.

"But you're with your friends," her blue eyes narrowed as her forehead creased.

"Come with me to the beach, Danielle. You don't have to be alone." He couldn't identify the tone of his voice, but he knew that this was the right thing. It had been the right thing the first time.

He watched as her eyes roamed the walls then come back to him. She nodded. "Yes," the word was drawn out. "It's time to join your party." She took a step back, kicking her mug into the metal post of the chair so that it shattered, the thick soup mixing with the dirt on the floor. She frowned at puddle near her boot.

"There are supplies for cleaning," Rousseau stepped around the muddy mixture towards the bathroom.

He watched her go, then squatted to carefully pick up the pieces of the cup. Standing, he scanned for a receptacle, his attention not completely on the task. The results that he had doubted but nonetheless had hoped from this outing were not to be had. If he was successful in getting them free of this prison, he would consider outcome as a different type of success.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

It was a natural progression from cleaning the spill to the rest of the floor. They cleared it of their plunder, piling items where space permitted. This resulted in finding of an increasing number of odd items tucked in spaces, behind or under objects.

"I do not understand these," said Rousseau as she lifted empty tape dispensers weakly bundled together with a dried elastic band. She presented them to Sayid who shrugged, then placed it near an unbalanced sculpture of paper clips, two combs with significant missing teeth, three plastic bottles half filled with thick graying creams or lotions. She pointed to the basket of ink pens, small boxes of thumbtacks, "Those are more easily explained."

Memories of monotonous duty shifts rose to Sayid. He was surprised at the sense of nostalgia for the first days of his service that washed through him "Debris of the uninterested. Whatever was being monitored, it was not enough to hold attention long." He took another handful of soup packets, scanning for space.

A narrow door opened to a tangle of electrical wires. Sayid did not realize that he was staring at the knot until Rousseau tapped him on the shoulder and gestured with her thin hand for him to look upwards.

He sighed as he spotted a video camera snuggly sitting high in a corner. The placement of the chairs, the monitors – the only possible conclusion was that the task here was to watch. What was being watched, that was left to be discovered. But the watchers were watched? To what end?

He placed the envelopes on the floor and stepped back, tugging a hand through his hair. Every move forward was met with lunacy. He doubted that he would ever understand what was happening to him, the people around him.

Instinctually, Sayid ducked as something flew over his head. He straightened sheepishly as a towel, dirt dropping as it soared, fluttered near his foot. He stooped to retrieve the fabric, balled it carefully, and tossed it so that it landed over the lens of the intrusive equipment.

"Do you think that there is sound as well?" Rousseau asked as he turned.

"I do not know," he replied bitterly. "Any effort made to determine the purpose and means must be viewed as wasted."

"So you do not wish to see what you can make of that?" her tone was dry as Rousseau indicated the crowded space behind him and the monitors. "It would seem a waste of your mechanical skills not to investigate those wires." She dropped her eyes, then met his with the tiniest touch of a smile. "It does not require the two of us to finish this task." She moved to the last of the pile, gathering the flattened boxes of dried food.

Sayid watched the woman briefly and nodded to himself. A scientist who survived sixteen years in the jungle could easily clean a floor without the aid of a former solider. A slight smile touched his lips. It was refreshing, he realized, not to argue about the importance of the work assigned, not to be concerned that the work was beneath one's skill set. Rousseau had many admirable traits.

"Are you going to just stand there?" she demanded, taking yet another towel in hand.

A faint blush heated his cheeks as Sayid collected a notebook, a pen, and the small tool case. He blinked as he addressed the seemingly woven wires, all thought falling away as his mind leapt into untangling the mystery before him.

The pull across his shoulders lessened as he stood and stretched. He rubbed the bandage on his leg gingerly as it throbbed. There was a sense of satisfaction as he knew with certainty that the camera overhead was now inoperative, no listening devices found in the standard places as well as the unusual – thanks to the help of Rousseau, and the maze of wires were slowly being mapped. All but one of the monitors were buzzing with black and white dots – the other black, blank. The video player was wired to play on the monitor numbered six – he would watch the tape inside the machine when Rousseau returned - Rousseau. Where was Rousseau?

He turned and scanned the room for the woman. She had been busy with more than searching for bugs – the floor was clean, the soon to be pilfered inventory neatly organized under the closet with the missing door, the sleeping bag was spread against the far wall.

How long had he been –

The thought was interrupted as the door to the bathroom opened and Rousseau, hair damp, legs bare, entered the area. She stopped as their eyes met, her hands tugging at the lab coat. "The shower is lacking hot water but there is soap and shampoo."

Sayid blinked several times, then nodded, seeking words. With her hair away from her face, her eyes dominated her face – somehow more green, more piercing. He could see the soft roundness of her lips, the strength of her nose, the plains of her cheeks. The bruise from her fall seemed vast without her hair to obscure it. How much of Rousseau's wild locks had been camouflage?

He blinked again and noted the long legs – muscled and shapely, her foot narrow.

Rousseau lowered her gaze, red stealing across her cheeks, walking stiffly across the room. She pushed the paperclip mass aside, and intently inspected the combs. She selected one and, keeping her eyes lowered, carefully pulled the implement through her hair.

Sayid swallowed, realizing that he was making the woman uncomfortable. "I will…will make use of the facilities as well." He looked away, back to the wires, the monitors. "Later."

"You had success," Rousseau kept her chin tucked as she smoothed her hair, pointing to the monitors with the hand holding the comb.

"Yes." Sayid mentally groaned. She was still Rousseau. He was still Sayid. Why suddenly was this tension filling the room? His eyes landed on the VCR. "This monitor," he indicated the device, relieved to have something to say. "Is wired to the video player. Shall we see what was last watched?"

Rousseau nodded without looking at him, moving to the chair closest to her.

Sayid turned, not watching her walk, and pressed the button to start the tape. He waited until the tape proved playable and sat in the other seat.

The title - The Dharma Initiative 5 of 6 Orientation – flashed on the screen as disjointed syncopated music played tinnily. It was followed by the ubiquitous Dharma symbol with 'Orientation - Station 5 - The Pearl'.

"Dharma Initiative?" Rousseau's hand paused mid stroke. "Station five?" He did not have to see her face to know that she was confused. "Where are the other two?" She silenced herself as a man of Asian heritage wearing a brown sports coat appeared.

He was in this room, his back to the monitors. The film was obviously made before the room had heavy use. The décor was fresh and clean.

They watched the picture closely. The man introduced himself as Dr Mark Wickman. Sayid was reminded of reeled movies as its picture jumped and the sound track warbled in places. He felt his brow furrow as white coated people watched others performing jumping jacks.

The room was filled with silence as the monitor went black.

Sayid stared at the blank screen. What was that? That this was an observing station as he suspected, mentally grimacing at the obviousness of that conclusion, was verified. He had a face, a name to assign to Dharma, and the information that the hatch was probably first used in 1980, the date in the closing title. He knew that this Initiative predated Rousseau's arrival. Was that all there was to learn here?

He looked to his right at Rousseau. It did not take his experience reading people to see that she was mulling what they had just seen.

She shifted and met his gaze. "The notebooks in the pile, refuse. How many layers of lies does this," she nodded at the screen, "include?"

She climbed to her feet slowly. "Is that why they're here?" She began to pace, her fingers moving up and down the comb's teeth, her eyes intent and unseeing. "They are obviously heavily financed. What could be the objective of a project so secret?" She turned, meeting his eyes once more. "I am doubting that it is anything the scientific community would consider science. Or ethical."

Sayid frowned, "More scientists armed with guns."

Rousseau regarded him for a moment, a dry smile rising to her lips. "It has not been a good combination for you."

He smiled faintly. There was little chance of this situation ending as well as his first encounter with Rousseau. He shifted his weight, running his hand through his hair. "I had hoped for different information. Something useful." He realized the foolishness of the optimism, recalling the number entry at Locke's hatch. The same minds had structured the inane and dangerous exercise of human data entry every 1 hour and 48 minutes when a computer program would have guaranteed proper data at the required time. Entrust a cat with meat.

"Perhaps it is nuanced," offered Rousseau.

He considered, replaying what he could recall. The gaps – between the strong impressions of grown people moving uncoordinatedly and the dated jacket of Wickman - brought to his attention the weariness that had been growing. It was possible that reviewing after sleep would provide more.

Sayid closed his eyes and exhaled. "I am tired." He put his hand to the back of his neck and squeezed. The idea of a warm shower, water pounding on that spot, crowded out all thoughts. He opened his eyes and glanced at the bathroom door. He would settle for getting clean under cool water instead. He climbed from the seat. "I would like a shower."


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Despite its cool temperature and odd smell, the water was nirvana. That was, of course, after the plaster fell from his leg and the sting from the wound subsided. He hadn't bothered beyond one or two showers at Locke's hatch despite the hot water. His grief had seemed to heighten the strained atmosphere, and there had been the – unhealthy? – side of penance: avoiding pleasures after Shannon's death.

He was able to acknowledge that now. Time passed in a strange fashion on the island. He had stopped counting the days that he last stepped through the modern world after burying Shannon. Time had become the measure of pain and loneliness. Three days since she had laughed. A week since he had felt her touch. He had released the concept, his watch just a band around his wrist. In this fashion, he had continued until now.

This trek to find the doctor and others had somehow broken through the defense. He was once again very much involved with more than the day-to-day living, more than a husk of the soldier stepping up with the belief that he could perform well enough in that state.

He stopped the flow of water and toweled dry. He scavenged until he found the first aid and reapplied the plaster.

He struggled briefly with the question of washing his pants. He could sit in them wet, wait in the bathroom the hours until they dried, or don a lab coat.

The memory of Rousseau's ill ease decided him. His would be tenfold. He had not worn short pants since boyhood. At this time, he could not decide if even his mother would be permitted to see his knees.

He cringed as he drew the dirty material up his legs, but the feeling of clean triumphed. He hooked the hangers bearing Rousseau's damp attire on the shower rod and opened the door.

The lights were low; just those of the floor lights burning. The monitors were powered down though the differences were minor. Rousseau was lying on the spread sleeping bag. He stood in the door, listening to her breathing.

It was even and deep. The woman was asleep.

Sayid moved into the main area. He hovered, uncertainly, then went quietly to a chair. He sat and shifted so that his head was supported by a corner. It was not bed but it surpassed the cold concrete.

"Sayid."

His mind jumped to attention, his body fast behind. "Danielle?" He was on his feet, stance defensive.

"Why are you sleeping in the chair?" Her dark form was huddled on the floor.

He wondered how long he had slept. "It…. seemed the proper thing to do." He recognised the inanity of the response and added, "You were not awake to consult."

"I am now awake. There is no need for this ….. conventionality." There was a note of amusement in her tone.

He did not move. He had slept close to Claire the first night of the crash. He had slept in a field with Kate and Shannon on the trek to radio for help. He had slept near Ana Lucia on the march to disprove Henry Gale's identity.

With a sigh, he crossed the floor and carefully sat on the cloth.

"I will not bite you," she said, lying down and turning her back to him.

He pushed the corner of the sleeping bag into a smallish lump and reclined. It was more comfortable than the position in the chair. He rolled onto his stomach and closed his eyes.

He did not sleep, instead taking note of Danielle's breathing. This time he could not determine if she was sleeping.

He flipped back onto his back, cushioning his head with his hands. When they began to sting with the lack of circulation after what seemed like minutes, he rolled onto his side. The pillow lump had been smoothed with his movements, so he sat up and once more fashioned a small headrest. He stretched out on his side.

It did not take long for his hip to grow numb and he once more turned to lie on his back.

"You were much more still in the chair."

He flushed. "There was less room."

Her shadowy form sat up. The low lights gently lit half of her face. She maneuvered her back against the wall, drawing her knees to her chest. "Is Dharma the others?"

He rolled to his side, watching her, bracing himself with his elbow. "I suspect that they are. Their behavior makes little sense but that there are two groups of people unseen by you on this island seems improbable."

Danielle nodded slowly, "And they have Alex."

"We'll find her, Danielle."

Even in the dimness, her smile was sad.

Sayid reached to touch her – reassurance, he told himself. Her foot was smooth, surprisingly soft under his fingers. His index finger followed a thin bone the narrow length to her little toe. He froze, and abruptly drew back, his eyes fast on the wall. Anywhere but at Danielle.

Neither moved as moments passed.

He had to know. He raised his eyes to hers. She was studying him in the muted light, her head tilted. She dropped her arms and watched her foot as she slowly straightened her right leg, stopping it just before it touched his leg.

She did not raise her sight beyond her foot.

He waited a heartbeat, trying to grasp the thoughts that flew through his brain. He surrendered to failure and carefully, deliberately covered her toes with his hand, not moving his eyes from her face.

The toes flexed once under his palm. He squeezed with faint pressure. As she lifted her chin and met his gaze, his pulse began to pound.

He pushed himself up and leaned into her. Her lips were warm, her hair soft on his arm as his hands dusted her arms to cup her shoulders. It was an exploratory kiss, water testing, acceptance questioned. It became a good kiss, welcoming.

He released her lips, and met her eyes.

After a few moments, she touched his cheek, slowly tracing the contours of his mustache, her fingers slightly trembling. She watched the path closely; her lips parted, then dropped her index and middle fingers to his lips and touched them almost with wonder.

He kissed them, drawing them into his mouth, feeling the ridges of her skin, the smoothness and jagged edge of the nail against his tongue. She closed her eyes, sighing softly.

He slipped them from his mouth, kissing the tips again. Again he lifted his eyes to hers. She made no move to pull away.

He turned the palm and studied it, his fingertips skating along each finger, her palm, her wrist. Her skin was rough, hard, dry. Her life on the island did not contain the lotions he associated with women, yet it was a woman's hand and he found each line, callas, crack starkly compelling. He held this hand and reached for the other. Danielle permitted him to hold them, her eyes following his every move, uncertainty tugging on her mouth.

Her life was there, before him, in these hands. He lowered his lips to them, kissing one, the other, and turning them to kiss the top of each. Satisfaction filled him as he felt her tremors. He raised his head and looked into her face, her smile and half lidded eyes also pleasing him.

Heat rising up his spine, Sayid swooped to kiss her again, deeper, gliding his tongue across her teeth, the inside of her lips. Her tongue met his, and they pulled each other closer.

His hand pushed past the heavy fabric to caress her stomach, lazy circles around the skin between her jutting hipbones.

She ran her hands up and down his arms, across his back. As the kiss broke, she touched his chest hesitantly, gained courage, stroking the hair, gently combing it with her curled fingers.

He eased down onto his back, bringing her with him, her legs pressed against his. He stretched to have her mouth. Her heat was intoxicating, rich, dark. He was floating in the wet softness, her hands his only anchor.

She broke the kiss, pushing away from him. She sat back. "This," she said, her voice catching. "Is what I want."

His brain struggled to switch gears, her words all but foreign to him. He blinked, rising to his elbows.

"Because it is you." She seemed to be pushing the words from her mouth. Her fingers interlaced again and again but her eyes stayed trained on his.

He sat slowly, considering her words. He captured her hands, stilling them. His hands glided to her shoulders, fingers brushing her neck, her jaw. Placing a hand on each side of her face, he leaned to brush her bottom lip, her top lip, her mouth with his. He lowered his hands and dropped back onto his heels.

Her hands stayed still. She peered at him, her face a mask. With a soft exhalation, she began to slowly unbutton the white coat, easing it down her shoulders to the floor.

She was thin – all muscle and bone. Her breasts were compact, high, beautiful. He gazed and lifted his eyes to hers, smiling. His fingers touched a rib. He was not surprised by the muscle he found there. He moved slowly, following each bone with a finger, one rib at a time until he reached the breast. He covered it with his palm, and looked to her face.

Her eyes were closed, her mouth making quiet sounds of pleasure.

He bent close and licked the soft skin, gently washing the areola. He repeated the action with the other, savoring each movement, every sensation, and pushed back, watching the expressions shift on her face.

She lifted her arms beseechingly and he embraced her, pulling her closer. She pushed her hand between them and worked the band of his pants free, her kiss now demanding, urgent. Without releasing his mouth, she helped him remove his garb.

Their hands roamed, feeding and building hunger. When her moans became impatient, her hands tugging, Sayid eased her beneath him and they joined, eagerly.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

He hovered at the periphery of consciousness, aware that his body was lax with sleep. Yet he was able to appreciate the warmth of the curled Rousseau pressed against his length, and flirted with the idea of staying here, in this state, not responsible to think, plan, act; just to …enjoy the weight of her hand on his stomach. The allure of it was great because the cold, unyielding floor covered with only a tattered sleeping bag was a luxurious bed that yielded the rest that had been denied him since Shannon's death.

The sound of glass meeting concrete swept him into wakefulness. He met Danielle's wide eyes, then jumped to his feet, catching her arm as the woman teetered. They hastily tugged on the clothes at hand, eyes trained on the opening that lead to the vertical hatch, ears straining to hear clues as to the number descending on them. As he zipped his trousers, Sayid cast about for a weapon, any weapon, his heart pounding in his chest. An errant thought on his lack of shoes dashed across his consciousness, foolishly increasing his feeling of vulnerability.

He spun to face the other opening, convinced that he would see Ben flanked by burly escorts. That the doorway remained empty offered small comfort – very fleeting - beyond the attack would not be a pincher. He looked back to the entrance as Danielle dashed to the counter and began to rummage through the contents, pushing things to crash to the floor.

There would be time, he realized, before the most nimble of climbers could reach the ground. The height of the tunnel would make vulnerable – temporarily – those making the descent. He smiled grimly as the thought of the damage some well thrown objects could provide.

The new scab on his shin pulled as he ran, brushing Danielle as he palmed the first two sizeable items on the counter. He quickly covered the short distance to the opening, and flattened himself before the door jam. He strained to hear for any clue to the number coming down, frowning in frustration when he could make out nothing. He slid carefully into position to view what he could of the rungs without being seen from above.

They were empty.

Sayid twisted so he could see to the top, concern that he be spotted forgotten. Despite the darkness, he could not make out a figure on the ladder. Unless it was night outside, the darkness itself was telling. The hatch was not open.

He frowned, looking at the glass fragments near his foot, then again at the vacant treads. He was without answers. Again.

He turned and shook his head as their eyes met.

Danielle was pressed to the wall, the propane canister in her raised hands like a cricket bat. She lowered it slowly. "Nothing." It was not a question. She pulled her lips tight, her eyes flat.

He noted a strange sense of disappointment. Despite the danger, despite the poor odds, the return of the Others would create forward motion. "No one." He tossed the crumpled box and sticky plastic bottle from his hands onto one of the chairs.

"Then why," she demanded.

He shrugged, absently rubbing his throbbing leg. "Perhaps someone tried to open the hatch but could not. Or was interrupted. By the mon - your – the security system. Perhaps the security system fell some trees, causing enough vibration to cause the glass to fall."

"You don't know," she said dryly.

He shrugged once more. "We'll know soon enough if it was the Others returning."

She carefully returned the tank to the counter. "Then we'd better be ready." She crossed to the bathroom door and disappeared into the room.

Sayid watched her, then moved to his shoes. It did not sit well with him, this waiting for outside forces to determine his fate. After leaving Iraq, he was almost overwhelmed by free will, with no grand plan marking his way, no heroic history to augment, no familial expectations bearing down. He Had been amazed to find the depth of his curiosity when unfettered by rules – internal and external – coupled with the freedom to indulge it.

With the plane crash, he was once again dependent on external factors. Rescue, once the transmitter was destroyed, was out of his hands. Food, water, shelter absorbed all energies. His choices were limited: work or go hungry; build or be exposed to nature's whims of blazing sun or punishing rains.

His only real choice had been to pursue Shannon, all else had been survival. Until now.

His eyes tracked to the door. He had chosen to accompany Danielle. He had chosen to touch her and be touched.

He was now choosing to leave the hatch. Today.

Danielle emerged fully dressed. Her clothes did not look much better for their washing. "We must leave," she said, her hands nervously smoothing her trousers.

Sayid finished tying his left shoe and stood. She stepped back, bumping into the door behind her, her gaze moving but never touching his face.

He kept his expression neutral as heat flamed his cheeks, grateful for his beard. The woman's tension added to the drowning quotient present in the room. He cursed his lack of suavity, wishing for moments that he could be Sawyer. He mentally sighed.

He nodded, then realized that she still had yet to look at him. "Yes."

Her eyes skated across his face.

"Danielle," he crossed to her, wondering if she would flee to the bathroom. He reached to gently take her forearms in his hands.

She stiffened, lifting her eyes to lock with his.

"We will escape," he said quietly. "We will go to your camp, retrieve your belongings. We will return to the beach camp."

She nodded once, stiffly. Her palms slid to grip his arms, tension evident in every finger pressing into his skin. "I will need a shelter." Her eyes bore into his.

A stray thought of how Robert believed that he could successfully lie to this woman dashed across his mind. A small smile rounded his cheeks. He nodded.

The pressure on his skin eased, then tightened almost painfully.

"I would like it near yours." The tone was almost a dare, almost a plea.

Before freeing Nadia from her Iraqi prison, Sayid had not considered himself impulsive. He preferred the image of a logical, clear thinking person with a talent for judging people. The desperate and wild act of shooting himself in the leg scarred that illusion as well as his thigh. He now tried to temper the two aspects with some success, some failure.

Instinct raised its head. "If you wish, you could share mine."

Her fingers loosened, began to caress. Her eyes brightened, a smile similar to that when he repaired her music box opened her face. "Yes. Yes, very much."

He took her hand, and indicated with his head the direction of the horizontal hatch. "Let's check that door. Perhaps what caused our glass to fall caused their lock to fall as well."


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Perspiration crept down his back, its slide stopped only by the band of his trousers. The drops on his chest became entangled in the dark hairs, but slid freely on his neck. He wasn't certain which he hated more and mentally sighed for his shirt. As worn as it had been, it had been enough to spare him the torment – no, the distraction of the inching, itching drops traversing his skin.

Danielle stepped back, wiping her palms against her hips. "Let's try the other."

He nodded, combing his hair away from his forehead with his fingers. Why not try the vertical hatch? In retrospect, it made more sense to try the entry with the most recent activity. Perhaps the broken glass did point to an aborted attempt to enter. Perhaps the 'locks' that had been set in place had been removed or broken. Perhaps, he thought darkly, raking his hand through his curls until he reached his neck and closing his hand to wrench mildly at the length, it was Gale's way of announcing that they were free to go, all was forgiven.

He followed her across the concrete floor, through the main area, to skirt the glass shards at the base of the tunnel. He watched as she reached from habit to push the rifle to her back. She frowned at him as she caught herself and firmly placed her right foot on the first rung. She grasped the bar in front of her and began her ascent.

He watched her climb, surefooted, intense. She was fierce in all things, he thought, a small smile ghosting his lips. His attention shifted from the woman's purposeful movements to appreciating the roundness of her hips as she climbed, savoring the thought of how they felt under his hand just hours ago. He recalled the smoothness of her thigh and felt heat flare.

She reached the top, distinctness fading in the dimness. He could hear her disassemble the alarm platform; the sound interrupting his reverie, returning the severity of their situation to forefront of his thoughts. He unnecessarily ducked his head to conceal the flush of his cheeks, chiding himself that now was not the time to marvel at the form of the woman.

"Step back," she called and waited until he did to release the thin metal strips. They clattered as they bounced at the bottom of the shaft.

Sayid returned and looked up, watching the dark form seemingly defy gravity.

"It is as it was yesterday," she announced with disgust.

He shared her frustration. There had to be a reason for the falling glass. There had to be a means of escape. He tried to recall the entirety that he knew of the construction of Locke's hatch. There had been a crawl space underneath but only plumbing, duct work, and dirt were found there. Not even the most imaginative person could devise much –

He stopped, his brow creased as he mentally twisted to grasp a fragment, a wisp of a thought: duct work: tin: direction: air flow: heat: fire: explosion. He squeezed his fingers into his palms, resisting the burning impulse to run to the cache, willing speed to Danielle's hands and feet, seeing her body solidify as his muscles tensed, aching to move. As she reached the floor, he realized that he had been holding his breath and released it. He spun and dashed to the hoard, his eyes sweeping the muddle.

"Sayid?" her voice sounded puzzled as she joined him moments later, touching his arm tentatively.

His fingers closed around the cool canister. The first moment of truth – was there enough of the gas? He lifted it carefully; felt some tension dissolve as the heft was as he hoped –wanted – needed. He swallowed the sigh – they were not yet free – and turned to her, presenting the propane tank.

She narrowed her eyes, glancing at the blue tank and back to him. "Propane." Two narrow fingers slowly slid the length of the cylinder. "Contents under pressure," a slow smile spread with her comprehension. "Explosive."

"Placed in the wheel of the door, it may be enough of a force to break the lock," he offered, looking over his shoulder in the direction of the horizontal hatch entry.

The smile grew. "Yes." Her gaze was warm. "You are quite resourceful, Sayid."

He knew it as truth but was surprised by the lightness in his chest the statement created. When did he become this weak, he wondered with a sinking sensation, that the praise pleased him so. He pushed both feelings aside. Like most things: he would deal with them later. "We'll see," he said grimly.

They discussed the manufacture of the device, keeping it as simple as possible. Neither, they found, had extensive experience with explosives; his with the military under rigid supervision; hers very small scale with tightly controlled circumstances.

They moved down the hall to dissemble their wooden braces and study the door. The positioning of the gas tank was determined and altered repeatedly until they agreed upon one that logically should provide the greatest impact to the door with the blast.

How to detonate from a distance proved difficult to overcome. Returning to the center room they dug through the found objects for a solution. The obvious, a long fuse, was thwarted by the lack of cord or natural cloth. Danielle volunteered the lab coats but they were made of a polyester blend and the torn strips melted when a match was applied to them. The same was true of the sleeping bag. The towels were too thin – flaring and dying at the source of flame – to be of service.

The remnants of his shirt, cotton and happily flammable, had been sized to bundle the door locks, not affording much burn time. They had no means of knowing the size of the explosion – how much propane was in the tank; the affect of age on the pressure of the canister, the stability of the gas itself – so the greatest the distance between them and it was greatly desired.

Lighting a fire at the door would explode the canister. But would it explode the canister wedged in the wheel of the door? How much fire and time would be necessary to heat the gas to detonation? Was there enough wood to build a large enough flame to that would burn long enough to ignite the blast? As they discussed each aspect, Sayid was aware of moments passing; each minute seeming to increase the possibility of their captors return.

They finally agreed that the fuse configuration was the most certain to accomplish their goal and the shirt remnants were retrieved. The longest piece was disconcertingly short. They experimented tying two together, but the flame did not pass through the knot. After some argument, it was agreed that a short fuse was better than the rest of the unknowns. Light the fuse and run, they told one another. That it would require significant speed to avoid being close to the blast was left unsaid.

Exchanging concerned looks, they efficiently assembled the device and lodged it tightly in the spokes of the wheel.

"Is there anything here that we should take with us?" Sayid glanced back to the large room. "I would prefer to leave here as quickly as possible. If we are being guarded, the explosion should provide momentary confusion of which we'll need to take full advantage."

"Or announce to them to come quickly," said Danielle.

They walked quickly to the disarray, and stood side by side, scanning the jumble about the floor.

"Perhaps some soup?" She smiled wanly at him. "Until you determine the recipe."

A hint of a smile curved his lips. He crossed to his rucksack and slipped it over one arm. He squatted and reached for the pile of blank notebooks and the pens next to them. Surely paper would come in handy, he mused, watching Danielle drop the combs, then the first aid kit, into hers. She rolled the sleeping bag tightly and jammed it in as well, swelling her pack considerably. The toolkit, near her foot, caught his eye and was snagged when he pointed to it.

He stood, and twisted to retrieve the matches and candles. He pushed the candles between the notebooks and closed his hand around the box of matches. His eyes swept the room once more. It was inevitable that he would leave behind an item that its exclusion would be rued but he could feel the seconds striking his skin and nothing else claimed his attention.

His stomach was tight, his breaths deep. This was good. They were taking charge. "Be ready," he said stepping to the hall entrance.

"Wait!" she called, the pack forgotten as she dashed to close the gap between them. "What are you doing?" Her fingers tightened around his elbow.

"What we agreed – "

"We did not agree that you would be the one to….." her voice trailed off, then her fingers pressed deeper into his skin. "Sayid, it makes no sense for you to be the one to do this. Your leg will slow you down. I can strike the fuse. I'm sooner than you. It's safer that way." She slipped her hand around his forearm, as if to hold him in place, the other covering the match box.

He frowned, his forehead creasing, and looked at their joined hands. He didn't like the logic of her words. It was wrong to endanger Danielle. He was practiced at this. There were too many unknowns. She was a woman. He was to keep her safe.

"We'll need to leave here at a run," she continued earnestly, seeing his uncertainty, his discomfort. "You'll need to run for a distance. You could be captured all over again and I don't have my gun." She tugged slightly at the matches.

Sayid met her searching gaze. Was his leg the reason that she was being so insistent? Was her attachment to him the greater motivator? Or did she simply need to prove her worth, to 'protect' him, as she couldn't do for Alex? As he couldn't do for Shannon?

He sighed, pressing his eyes closed.

"Sayid," her hand touched his cheek roughly, as if she couldn't control the action, her voice growing tight in desperation. "Please, do not be gallant right now. Stay alive. Stay with me."

He opened his eyes to see her face, her pleading eyes. He relaxed his fingers after a moment, feeling the box slide from his palm.

"Thank you," she whispered, her smile trembling.

He nodded, trying to swallow the bad taste in his mouth.

Her shoulders followed her turning head and he watched the woman proceed down the hall.

Sayid inched forward, unable to stop his legs. Her shadow was short in the fluorescent light and he was suddenly aware of the buzz of the ballasts, the thud of his heart in his chest. He struggled against the urge to dash after her. He was again holding his breath as she stopped before the door. The hiss of gas as she opened the valve filled his ears. The sound of the match being dragged across the gritty strip was a roar.

Her long hair seemed to float as she turned in fractions – the action caught in amber as she moved. Then she was running – slowly – glacially - towards him. His feet moved of their own volition, shuffling towards Danielle while his brain calmly repeated the need to heed her plan. He would impede her. He would impede her.

He watched his hands clutch hers, trying to push her ahead of him towards the main room. Instead the concussion of the explosion hurled them forward. Time returned to normal as he slammed onto the concrete at full speed, pain racing hot white across his left shoulder, then down his back. Danielle crashed on top of him, the actions combining to expel the air from his lungs so he gasped painfully for breath. Their eyes locked momentarily – her face was streaked with gritty dust – and then gone as he felt her hips roll over and off of his.

Her hands grasped his arm, tugging him to his feet. He stood, dizzy, sucking in air, as she disappeared.

Then she was back, backpack retrieved, tugging at him again, urging him down the hall into the dust thick air. "Go go go," he could make out her words though the sound seemed filtered through cotton. With a shake of his head he was running, no need for her assistance now. Hands gripped tightly as they ran, heads down against the snowing dust.

He expected sunlight, bright on the greens. Disappointment bit deep when instead he realized that he was at the end of the hall, the exit blocked by the indestructible door. He slowed, despite her pushing into him with little force, as disbelief grounded him to the spot.

Danielle dropped his hand and retreated several steps before sinking to the floor. He did not have to see her face to know that she was weeping.

It should have worked.

He closed his eyes and rubbed his them against his bicep, the grit from the dust rasping against his skin. Opening them, he took a step closer.

Light. Sunlight was visible around the edge of the door.

"Danielle!" he shouted, pushing to feel a bit of give. "It worked!"

"What?"

He exerted more effort. "The door – it's not locked!" he called, feeling the chords bunch in his neck. He felt movement – slow, resisting. "Danielle!"

She was beside him. He took a breath and together they pressed their weight.

It gave in slow painful bits, but it was open. It was not wide but it was enough for them to slip through. Despite the slow gait, their haste resulted in tumbles over the door jam. He couldn't say who assisted whom but they were up and they were out.

The sunlight was harsh, blinding. He tried to scan the area, determine the situation but his eyes would not focus under the assault of the light. It had to be early afternoon, he realized, feeling her hands yanking at him again.

"Run!" her cry was hoarse.

He somehow managed to cross a high-grassed clearing, his leg burning, the loose rucksack crashing against his spine with each step. Her form was fuzzy in front of him as his eyes streamed. The canopy was a soothing balm, reducing the light so Danielle, leaning against a tree was more than a shape. He secured his backpack, slipping his arm into the free band, pulling deep breaths into his lungs. He squinted past the leaves.

He moved to her side and pawed at her shoulder. "Come!" he managed to exhale. He allowed the slightest relief that they were not immediately surrounded but it did little to silence the voice calling for distance between them and their prison quickly quickly now.

Pulling at her arm, they crashed through the jungle, branches snagging their hair, scratching their skin. Finally his flight instinct diminished, and he slowed to a drift, Danielle shadowing him. The drift slowed to moving in inches, then stopping Hands on hips, lungs heaving, Sayid turned slowly, studying the area around them, straining to listen beyond his own breathing.

The tension eased in his shoulders, as he did not see any sign to indicate that they had been followed. He was able to stop panting and view the surroundings for a different purpose. It was a good time to regroup, discuss their next step, he decided as he spotted a large bank of bushes creating a small-protected area.

He turned to her at his left. She was mirroring his scan but with an intent stillness that made her part of the jungle: untamed, instinctual.

His pulse quickened as he watched her face, eyes narrow in concentration; the tight, fluid movements of her body as she slowly, carefully, inspected the area around her.

Her eyes met his, then dropped as she lowered her chin. She stole a glance through her hair, and with a toss of her head, met his gaze directly, expression solemn.

He remained still, heat coiling in his belly. His mouth was dry – it must have happened during the run – and he dragged his tongue across his lips.

An abrupt and shrill cry broke the quiet.

He closed the space between them, his hand brushing hers then his fingers sliding around her wrist as they instinctively tried to make themselves lesser targets, crouching, knees bent. His eyes scoured the canopy, the grounds but could discern nothing distinct or threatening. They waited. The sound was not repeated.

Slowly the sounds of the jungle – sounds of which he had not been aware – returned. He withdrew his hand and straightened. He rubbed the back of his neck, watching yet for something to give away its presence.

He glanced at her. She frowned grimly. "We should continue," she said softly.

"To where?" He didn't disagree with her but they had been rushing without a plan since the door was blasted open. Lack of planning – he abhorred the vacuum it created after the lessons pounded into him –

in this case could mean traversing the island in its entirety when a straighter line could be ascertained.

She studied the tree tops carefully, turning once, again. "The sun is hitting from that direction," she pointed with an economical gesture of hand and forearm. "It's afternoon so that's the west. Your camp is to the western edge of the island."

He nodded at her logic. "So that way." For some reason, he found the words amusing and his lips turned up slightly. Perhaps it was just the need to utter the obvious. Perhaps it was because for once, something made sense here and he needed to acknowledge it, be the one to say something that was definite, something that was fact even on this island.

A small vee crinkled between her eyes as she looked at him quizzically.

He shrugged slightly.

Her eyes narrowed, then she turned, carefully picking their path.

He fell behind her, one last glance behind them.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

He hadn't meant to walk in the surf. He doubted if it had been Danielle's intent either. Given the need for vigilance, he was not pleased that he had missed the changing of the tide. Since the night was unbroken by moonlight and even the Others needed light to see, he had relaxed somewhat and that should have not be permitted: he should not have been caught unaware by a creeping tide. It spoke of lax discipline, inattention, inability to stay focused.

It also meant wet feet for some time. He had learned quickly that things were very slow to dry in the beach air and the sun did not easily penetrate the thick materials of his trackers. Since the dryer at the Hatch had been short lived, he was once more faced with gradually drying his footwear with the heat of his feet and ankles.

Quick to learn, quick to forget? Another reminder that he failed to retain hard won schooling rubbed against his shoulders, the straps of the rucksack cutting into his shoulders.

He knew from changing domiciles that books were heavy to move. Packing to leave university meant boxes of volumes and he was surprised by the small number of cardboard containers he had pushed to the wall compared to that of Essam. When it was time to leave, Essam had stood watching with a smile tugging at his mouth as Sayid had squatted to lift the one marked Maths. He could recall his roommate's laughter pealing down the hall as Sayid grunted as he landed on his seat, unable to raise the carton.

Little good did the memory serve him when he had jammed the examination booklets into his backpack before leaving the hatch. He had failed to consider the thin bindings as books.

With the straps pressing against his shoulders with each step, he had since acknowledged their true nature, initiating an ongoing debate with himself about their value on an island where the supply was finite.

His shirtless state weighed in on the valueless side of the dialogue. The canvas against his back rubbed skin with page edges that inexplicably would not lie smooth despite his two attempts to make them do so. Either the scrap of his shirt had provided more protection than he would have considered possible or he had not carried anything like the notebooks' granite points since the crash.

Dry shoes. Feet without blisters. Padded loads in softly worn rucksacks. Shirts more substantial than paper napkins. His mind listed that which he once took for granted – at least in recent memory.

He stopped the enumeration and instead briefly considered removing the shoes. He rejected the thought: wading would only add time to the long march; the footwear would be one more thing to carry. Instead he closed the gap with Danielle. He touched her wrist and moved their path from the waves' reach.

"We aren't too far from your camp," she said, stepping close, their arms brushing.

He smiled with relief at the news, and squinted in an attempt to see ahead. He abandoned the effort, instead looking around them. It would be good to release the tension of caution, as erratically as he kept it. He thought with a pull of longing for the comfort of his tent.

He glanced at Danielle and felt warmth touch him. He would need to expand the living area of his tarp hut. They were two people unaccustomed to sharing. He mentally smiled, thinking that space could be the easiest issue facing them.

Also facing him was Locke and the missing trio. He ignored the pang of guilt at not considering this concern before the mundane. A plan must be contrived to return Kate, Jack, and Sawyer to camp. Perhaps with Danielle's voice –

Her fingers gripped his wrist, a yank halting his movement. Sayid glanced ahead then back to the woman's face.

Her eyes were slits, her mouth pulled tight. "It's gone," her voice was low, tense.

"What?" He peered into the darkness, tried to see what disturbed her. He could discern the white of waves. Then darker shapes absorbing what little light…

Unnatural shapes. Of size. Of size to shelter the stranded.

Where was the signal fire? His chest tightened and he struggled with sand and Danielle's hold to rush forward. Where were they? Where was Hurley? Charlie? Claire and Aaron?

"Wait!" Danielle hissed, both hands now clamping on his arm, throwing her weight back to stop his charge. "It could be a trap!"

The words stopped his muscles. A trap – yes, a trap for the Others. Locke was crafty. He once believed him the answer off the Island. It was a snare laid by Locke.

Perhaps the caves were once again acting as a shelter; as they had when Danielle had warned them of the smoke.

He forced himself to relax, to breathe. He ran a hand through his hair and stepped back, Danielle's grip easing. As his muscles yielded, she slowly slid her fingers to his wrist, dropping one hand. "Sayid?"

"Yes." His voice rumbled deep in his chest, his fingers curling around hers. He met her eyes and squeezed her hand, anchoring the feel of her flesh to the need for caution, cunning, to override the scream at the back of his throat for speed, action.

They moved away from the beach, cutting diagonally to the tree line, then over so that they would be – should be looking directly into the camp. Now he required no reminder to watch each step, strain to hear beyond the surf, see into the night. He cursed his inability to fly and soar into camp, to pull the sun past the horizon, to hear the collective pulse of his friends. Sitting in the nest of trees demanded a patience he did not know that he possessed until finally, the dark yielded.

There was no sign of movement, no smell of wood smoke, no sound of a wakening village.

They waited, watching as the sun scattered the darkness, uncovering the fragile blackened skeleton of the signal fire, low and scattered. The hoax of shelters, now walls collapsed into one another, the gently flapping scraps of the water tarps fluttering around their frames called to mind an infinite desolation.

His imagination peopled the area – Jin poking at the fire by his tent, warming water for Sun; Hurley and Charlie engaged in an ongoing debate in front of the fire, Hurley with breakfast in hand; Kate starting out for her morning constitutional. He blinked and the beach was empty once more.

He rose, once more knowing that he was heartsick, feeling Danielle at his shoulder, appreciating without knowing it her silence, her lack of touch.

Where were the survivors?

He dropped the heavy backpack to the sand, the irony that he had forgotten it sweeping through him, and picked his way slowly, with exaggerated care to stand outside the trees. The sun was gentle on his face and felt as a beacon to any watching for his return – any return. Here he was.

The silence remained unbroken. No darts whizzed to drug him; no bullets to maim; no Locke to challenge.

He took a step and was abruptly aware of his empty hands. He turned and scanned for a stick of size. Of course this close to the beach there was none. The fires had been fed the easy wood what felt like ages ago.

He faced the camp and moved deliberately to the ruined fire ring, checking from his left to the right. Nothing moved save his hair across his face. Nothing broke the sound of the surf.

He knelt and needlessly touched the sand inside the stone parameter, seeing as he did so Bernard delineating the circle with the rocks so it was uniform in size and form; Rose providing more amusing commentary than assistance. The blackened bits of fuel were brittle and cold - like the sand – and left a thick mark on his fingers that did not require that Sayid focus to see, his eyes sweeping slowly the nearest shelter: Claire's.

He straightened, rock in each hand, and drew closer to the distressed habitat. He paused then flung the egg shaped orb as close as he could to the center of the remains, muscles tensed for flight as the abrupt clattering cracked the stillness.

Nothing stirred. No traps were unveiled. No maddened Others launched an attack designed to capture or kill.

He moved closer to the pile of wood and tarp, circling warily. He shifted the remaining stone to the right hand, fingers wrapping tightly about it; arm at his side, primed to release.

The roof was in pieces, allowing some of the larger and stouter furniture to be identified as such by the different heights of tattered coverings. The cradle crafted by Locke was visible in the far corner. Its presence was deeply disturbing.

He crept nearer, now straining to hear. No drone of flies. He dropped the stone and walked to the corner. He lifted the tarp draping the bed for a full view. Taking a shallow breath, he looked through the rails.

The relief made water of his muscles, and he resisted the buckling of his knees. The cradle was empty.

He permitted himself a moment of gratitude and a glance to where Danielle stood before he began to carefully pick through the hut's remains. Some personal items mingled with the litter. He did not know how to inventory to determine if the wreckage happened after Claire and the baby left or was a result of the leaving. It would not have been practical to drag the cradle along on any hike to safety.

The memory of Shannon dragging the suitcase of her dead brother's clothes slammed into him. Practicality did not always play a role in flight.

The fears of not so long ago, when he sprinted to find Aaron washed over him. The destruction about him was the embodiment of "run, hide, or die". It occurred without black smoke or plans for dynamite, without rafts, or mysterious hatches.

Despite the span of time, despite changes wrought both internal and external to him, his fate – the survivors' fate, he amended quickly, his stomach clenching- seemed sealed on this island. Parachutes with food and liars, planes with caches of drugs, these could fall out of the sky, but there was no winning. They would never leave the island.

He stared at the debris covering the sand at his feet. Wreckage on the beach, like the plane. Repetition.

He lifted his head, looking to the next shelter – Locke's – then over his shoulder to where Danielle stood, her arms wrapped about her, not appearing to have moved. They regarded each other steadily, then she snagged his rucksack and crossed the sand to the fire ring, her graceful movements jarringly at odds with the ugliness around him. She dropped both packs carefully, took a stone in each hand, and walked to the edge of detritus, her gaze locked onto him.

He frowned deeply. "It makes little sense for us both to be at risk at this task."

"I disagree." Her voice was calm, almost serene.

"Danielle, there could be traps –"

"If this is to be the end of you," she said softly, the peacefulness in her tone soothing him. "Then it is to be the end of me." She looked past him and back, then continued. "I am tired of surviving alone, Sayid. I have had enough of it. It will be with you or it will be not at all."

He studied her face. She lifted her chin slightly, as if underlining her words.

The memory of her skin under his hand curved his fingers. He could recall the feel of her breath on his neck, the taste of her mouth. The pleasure of their conversations in the hatch and his surprise at her attempt to defend him washed through him.

He nodded slowly. "Yes. I agree." He looked about him and pried a sizeable pole from the remains. He reached for the stone and straightened.

They picked their way to the next pile.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

It was growing dark. The day had been spent searching and he felt the weight of isolation.

He was relieved with what they had not found - no bodies, no dried blood on the ground, nothing rigged to ensnare. The food stores had been destroyed with a completeness that amazed them. Danielle had longingly touched a tattered label of a chocolate bar before releasing it to the wind but nothing edible was salvageable here.

They had trekked to the caves after the initial combing of the camp. He had little hope of anyone being found but the disappointment was strong when they discovered the caves were uninhabited. The signs of human occupancy were remnants from the time of Claire's pregnancy and Boone's death. They filled the water bottles in Danielle's rucksack and quietly stole away, back to the sun.

The results of their efforts were piled in a small mound near the signal fire. They had scrounged what they could. A small mound of clothing, Jin's fishing nets, large pieces of tarp that they fashioned into knotted bags capable of being carried. He focused on the finding of two shirts and a pair of pants in the rubble that had been his tent, ignoring the loss of everything else. It seemed small to feel the loss of Shannon's pink shawl, radio parts when there were no clues to the fate of the survivors.

He now pulled one of the shirts over his head, noting the soreness of his shoulders that indicated sunburn. He grimaced as sand dropped down his chest, some collecting in his waistband. He shifted slightly in a vain hope that the grit would continue its fall until it left him altogether. It made him uncomfortable.

Like the discomfort he was experiencing remaining near the camp.

He glanced at the sky. There was little daylight left. He wanted to be away from here before the darkness was complete.

Danielle left the surf to join him. She looked at the meager lot, her fingers capturing his wrist. "We should go. It will take some hours to reach my shelter."

He nodded. "You're comfortable traveling through the night?" He didn't want to stay but the sense of ill ease would not drive him if rest would benefit them more.

She nodded. "As we did last night." As she brushed hair away from her face, Sayid noticed a scrap of paper in her hand.

"What have you found?"

"This?" She smiled self-consciously, lifting her hand to share. "I found it over there." She gestured towards Sawyer's ruined shelter. "It's from a magazine." Her eyes hungrily followed the torn image of a woman dressed in something red. "It's pretty," she said softly.

He didn't recall seeing Sawyer's store of periodicals earlier, but he wasn't looking for them. It was easy to forget the seclusion that Danielle had lived for so long, how something as simple as months old journals would be a luxury.

"Come," he took her hand, warmth spreading through him at the idea of her pleasure. "There could be more."

They crossed to the bits of tarp and began to pull away the fragments of plane – the walls of Sawyer's home. Sayid tried to recall – if he ever knew – if Sawyer kept the publications in a box or loose. The southerner had traded them with hard bargains, creating an odd value for what was normally ephemeral material. So, he reasoned, the man would have stored them away from the entrance.

Pushing away fragments of the seat used by the Southerner for a bed, Sayid brushed at the loose sand and smiled in small triumph as he uncovered dusty, wrinkled glossy papers. A scantily dressed woman pushed pouting lips as if to blow a kiss as she contorted her very thin body on the water dappled blue cover.

"Danielle," the smile was in his voice.

She turned, and reached excitedly for his offering. She slowly lifted a page, all around her forgotten.

She would remember soon enough, he thought, noting the fast fading light. He knelt, looking for more of the collection.

His fingers struck very loose sand. He recognized an indentation and prodded downward until he encountered a firm and unyielding surface. He swept the sand away and could discern the silver of the plane exterior. More wall? Buried? He cleared more to find a corner and using both hands, pulled it up.

Sand slid down the surface, some onto a dark fabric. It was loose wrapping for some irregularly shaped items in a shallow rectangular cavity.

Sayid recalled Sawyer and Jack emerging from the shelter the day they were left camp with Michael, ostensibly to the village of the Others, before anyone knew of the murders. Sayid could picture the fabric bag of weapons in Sawyer's hands as he and Jack had argued about Sayid accompanying the party.

At the time, he had not considered how Sawyer had gathered the weapons, more intent on knowing plans, their moves. He was distracted from determining the storage place of the purloined guns, instead reacting to his instincts that all was not well with Michael.

His stomach now jumped with tense excitement as he pushing the metallic covering away. Danielle joined him, gazing at the cache.

She stooped and lifted the edge, then flipped it to the side.

The collection of odds and ends jumbled together did not include arms. Disappointment flooded him. It had been too much to expect.

She picked at a few of the objects. A bottle of liquor, books. "We can look at these more closely later." He squatted and grasped two ends and they lifted blanket, glass clanking softly, as if in protest for the rough treatment. Sawyer would not approve of -

Rifles. Under the blanket.

He could not stop the thought 'buried treasure'.

"Sayid!" Danielle froze, glancing to his face, and back to guns.

The number was reduced to – three –no, four of those Sawyer had stolen from the gun locker in the hatch, when he declared himself "sheriff". The weapons that Jack and Sayid had decided would be safe hidden away until needed.

When they left with Michael. And now.

They lowered the bundle hastily, and knelt on the edges. She reached, her hand pausing. Despite the deepening gloom he could see an array of emotions crossing her face – relief, satisfaction, tension.

"There should be ammunition as well," he offered. "There was a complete arsenal at the hatch. Sawyer is, if nothing else, thorough."

She did not meet his eyes, carefully selecting a rifle, standing to run her hand up and down the stock and barrel. "Now we no longer can only run."

"They have weapons to match," he said, tossing her a box of bullets and loading the rifle he chose to carry. "Unfortunately, we have provided them with a number ourselves, and while we don't know their count, we do know that they outnumber you and me. We are not in a position to make a direct confrontation."

"So indirect."

The darkness now hid her expression but he detected still the presence of strain.

"In time." He said, and slung the rifle strap over his right shoulder. He knelt to load the rifles and bullets in the makeshift tote, and straightened, lifting it.

He wondered the source of her disquiet as they started to the fire ring. If he thought about it at all, he would have expected the possession of a rifle would ease Danielle's mind, allowing her to feel less vulnerable. He hadn't considered that it also could mean the return of responsibility. If they possessed the means, they must attempt to find and free the survivors.

They quickly combined Sawyer's bounty and their original collection. The additions added to the weight of his pack but he packed carefully with efficiency and comfort in mind.

He resisted the urge to look again at the area that had served as home as Danielle crossed the tree line. He carried more than the scraps they gathered from the beach with him. Destroying his shelter did not destroy the reemergence of his need for connections, the friendships made, the bonds of a community. Nor did he leave behind the deaths, heart ache, or exposed shortcomings.

Sayid listened for a moment, picking out the sounds of Danielle's footfalls. His lips curved slightly as they stilled, knowing that she was listening, too, and waiting for him.


End file.
